Watch the King Conquer
by MarthaJones11
Summary: All Sherlock wants is the truth. All Annabel wants is freedom. And all her captor wants is her life.
1. Chapter 1

It was late November, midnight. The air was perfectly clear, not a cloud overhead. Stars, visible when observed for long periods and away from garish city lights, painted a canvas of constellations and dotted beauty across the inky sky. But all she knew was that this clearness, this ethereal, lucid sky meant only one thing: the cold night air would cause hypothermia, and it would kill her long before he found her again. She had already felt the beginning symptoms. Her fingers fumbled with the rusty zipper on the stained jacket, stolen from his flat. She tried to speak, to talk herself through the situation, but only found herself mumbling through some incoherent babble. When she walked, trying to find a way out of the cramped alley and into a safe location, her feet stumbled and she nearly fell. Yes, it was hypothermia. The beauty of the night meant nothing to her. She would either die from exposure or from his wrath. She had no other choice. She ran.

Bursting from her hiding space between the immense brick buildings, she tripped over bins and trash bags strewn over the uneven ground. At first, she fell into an open container of glass bottles, cutting her palms and face on their razor edges. She bit on her tongue, forcing back the scream that wanted to escape. He would hear her. He would find her. She made her legs work again, forced her feet to carry her away from the alley. She fell again, stumbling onto a bench just moments after leaving the alleyway. Again, she bit back sobs and forced herself up. Her legs pumped faster. Her breath hitched in her throat, then came out somewhere between a sob and a gasp. The cold night air burned her teeth, her throat, her lips. The thin clothes she had stolen did nothing to protect her from the vicious wind that bit at her skin. She knew that she wouldn't be able to run for much longer. Soon he would find her.

Rounding another corner, she sprinted a few more blocks, and then tripped over an exposed grate in the sidewalk. Tumbling to the ground, she collapsed and held bleeding hands and knees close to a bruised face. Ugly gasps escaped chapped lips. Her throat felt bloody and raw. Her skin burned from the sudden pocket of cold air that encased her body. Dragging herself from the sidewalk, she crawled on hands and knees up the nearest set of stairs and sat there, panting with exertion and terror. It wouldn't be long now. He would have men searching every corner of the city. No one was coming to help her. She rested her weary head against the door where the steps led. She had given up.

Suddenly, the door gave way. In spite of herself, the girl screamed, alarmed at the unexpected movement. Twisting quickly, she jumped up and began sprinting away from the open door of the flat. An elderly woman's voice stopped her. She turned at the foot of the stairs. The woman's voice was so concerned, so inviting, so matronly. And she was so tired, so cold, so very tired…

* * *

"And did you see his face?" John asked, gesturing wildly while imitating the terrorist's look of surprise when he and Sherlock had appeared at the supposedly safe criminal rendezvous. "Oh, that was good. That was very good. Should do that more often."

Sherlock offered a smirk beside him.

"Well, we used to, John. But remember, you're a family man now. Can't be out at all hours of the night, catching murderers and internationally wanted terrorists. Can you imagine what your wife would say?"

"Sherlock Holmes, was that a joke?" John answered, laughing while feigning surprise. "You know Mary loves it when I get out of the house at night…" John's voice trailed off, his smile disappeared, and his eyes widened. "Oh, Sherlock, she's not having…she's not…is she?"

Sherlock stared intently at his friend, then released a short burst of hearty laughter.

"Of course not, John! Mary simply enjoys her evenings alone to watch the television and eat biscuits and read a specific brand of novel."

He stopped as John held up a single, gloved hand.

"I have no need to hear about my wife's evenings alone from my best friend, Sherlock," he said firmly. He checked his watch and gasped. "Speaking of which, look at the time! I've got to get home, she'll be worried sick…"

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh beside his friend, his breath visible in the frigid November air. They rounded the corner to 221 Baker Street.

"No, John, your wife is in bed reading trashy romance novels while drinking expensive red wine. She's already assumed you're staying the night. Besides," he smirked, "Mrs. Hudson's stayed up all evening, waiting for us to arrive. She's even put the kettle on. You wouldn't want to disappoint her, would you?"

John's eyes furrowed. He lifted his hand to the knob as Sherlock ascended the staircase outside the flat. "How could you possibly know that?"

A raised hand cut him off. Sherlock stood silently, then dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the stone steps.

John sighed. "For God's sake, Sherlock, would you please come-" Sherlock stood abruptly.

"Someone's been here, John. Hurt. Bleeding. And if my deductions are correct, which they always are, that person…" he opened the door. Inside, Mrs. Hudson stood, her hands wringing and her eyes wet with tears. Sherlock smirked. "Is currently residing inside our flat."

"Oh John, Sherlock, please she's upstairs. I didn't know what to do. She was so cold, and she was bleeding, and her hands, and I just didn't know what else to do!" Mrs. Hudson continued on, following John and Sherlock as they darted up the stairs. "She seemed so cold and all the blood I just didn't –" her wavering voice and intermittent sobs were cut off by John's brusque voice as they burst into the flat.

"Mrs. Hudson. I need you to get something warm and sugary. Bring it up here. Then get every blanket you can find, and bring it here as well. Do you understand?" Mrs. Hudson nodded, then darted back down the stairs. Suddenly, she turned and ran back up.

"Sherlock?" she called.

The tall man, still wearing his long pea coat and thick scarf, turned slowly to face the older woman.

"Yes?" he hissed, his eyebrows rose in annoyance.

"I…I didn't know where else to put her, so…" Sherlock's eyes rolled and he turned his back to the landlady.

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Tea. Now."

As he heard the woman dart down the staircase, Sherlock slowly walked down the hallway to his bedroom with John following close behind. The door stood slightly ajar. Inside, a single lamp illuminated the dark room. Its light cast a glow on Sherlock's bed which, while usually in shambles and unused, was now home to a solitary, sleeping form. Sherlock wandered over, silently beckoning John to follow him. As he reached the headboard, he crouched down at eye level with the girl. His eyebrows furrowed. He pulled off a leather glove and held his hand immediately in front of her parted, chapped lips. A sigh of relief escaped him. She was breathing, but barely.

"Hypothermia has slowed her body systems," he Sherlock mouthed to John.

The doctor nodded, turning and darting from the room, hoping to find Mrs. Hudson and the additional blankets. Sherlock turned back to the sleeping girl. Her body was tightly covered with sheets, but her face was turned toward the single lamp. Sherlock gasped quietly while examining her exposed face. Long, brown hair draped in tangled, matted waves across his pillow. Eyes, screwed tightly shut, were surrounded by deep lines of exhaustion. Her right eye was swollen, black and blue from bruising. Shallow cuts ran across her face, and a deep gash trailed across her left cheekbone. Suddenly, she sighed deeply and turned away from the light, shifting underneath the sheets. One of her hands came free as she settled back into the pillow, on which Sherlock observed deep rashes and irritation, likely caused by forced bonds. He sighed and stood, turning off the lamp and stalking from the room.

Closing the door behind him, he came face to face with a concerned John and hysterical Mrs. Hudson.

"She'll be fine. Don't bother waking her for the tea. It will only upset her further. Lay the extra blankets over her, and wait for her to wake in the morning," he said quietly, turning away and walking down the hallway. John nodded to Mrs. Hudson, who sighed and took the blankets into Sherlock's room. John watched her go inside, and then stalked after Sherlock, who was now seated in his deep leather chair in the living room, his eyes closed, his hands folded lightly at the fingertips in front of his face. John cleared his throat. At the sound, Sherlock's eyes darted open. He smiled at John as the doctor raised his eyebrows at his friend's enthusiasm.

"We're accepting the case," Sherlock said, smiling and closing his eyes to the world.


	2. Chapter 2

She awoke with a gasp. Sitting bolt upright in the dimly lit room, she quickly surveyed her surroundings by the dusty light streaming through the side window. The blinds were drawn, tightly shut against the outside world, save for a few beams of sunlight that escaped through. Two nightstands and sat aside the bed. They were totally empty. She glanced around. No other furniture graced the room. There were no signs of where she was; no pictures, no posters, no accessories. She could determine nothing about this strange room.

She struggled out of the mound of blankets that encased her. Swinging her bare feet to the floor, she softly padded away from the bed and toward the closed door. She paused. She might have to escape from this person, or even defend herself. Returning to the bed, she wrapped herself in a single blanket for warmth, but also removed the solitary lamp from its position. Twisting off the shade and bulb, she hid the heavy metal base underneath the blanket, wrapped around her shoulders.

The door creaked loudly. She stopped and stared, hoping no one heard the noise that, to her, sounded like a cannon exploding. For several minutes she stood still, but she heard nothing from the rest of the building. Continuing down the hallway, she passed an open kitchen to her left. Glancing inside, she immediately recoiled in horror. Beakers of strange liquids filled the table, a skull rested upside down on the counter, and a jar of human fingers sat just outside the refrigerator. She held a hand to her mouth to stop the scream that threatened to break free. God help her; she had escaped one madman only to be taken in by another.

"Hello."

The voice sounded to her right. Out of instinct, the girl whipped around, brandishing the lamp base and drawing it back, ready to swing. She quickly observed the man standing in front of her. Shorter height for the average man, dusty blond hair, tan jumper, in his hands a chipped, steaming mug. When he saw her holding the lamp, his eyes widened. Dropping the mug, he ignored the shattering as she swung the lamp at his shoulder. His reflexes were faster, she realized a smidgen too late. Before she could blink, the man had grabbed the lamp, torn it from her hands and flung it across the room, and pushed her against the wall, holding her at arm's length.

"My God," he panted, sweat gathering slightly at his temples, "What was that all about?"

She struggled in his grasp, but he held firm. Smart, she thought. She glanced around, looking for an escape. Seeing none, she calmed her breathing, then looked the man in his eyes.

"Where am I?" she asked, her voice coming out as a hoarse whisper.

The man smiled gently, but did not loosen his grip on her shoulders. "You're at 221 B Baker Street. You collapsed on our stairs last night, and Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought you inside. You were hypothermic and bleeding. Do you remember anything?"

The man drew out the last word, clearly searching for her name. She knew better than to provide it. This man seemed trustworthy, and he had supposedly taken her in last night. But he could also be working for him. And there was that issue of the fingers and skull in the kitchen.

"Penny," she answered him. "My name is Penny. And yours?"

"John. John Watson. You're safe here, Penny."

John Watson. The name sounded familiar to her. Had he worked with John? She knew this man from somewhere, but she was so tired, so exhausted from last night. Perhaps she had only read his name in the papers. Regardless, she knew John had some connection to him. She'd have to figure it out soon. But she could barely keep her eyes open, and the aftereffects of the hypothermia were setting in.

John smiled at her, slowly loosening his grip on her shoulders until she sagged gently against the wall. He frowned.

"Come on, come into the living room. We'll get you sitting down and something to eat. You're probably starving."

John gently guided her from the hallway into the living room. As he eased her into a soft leather chair, she glanced around, taking in the rather cluttered surroundings. A sudden movement from the sofa caught her eye. There, a tall, lean man was laying face up, his limbs stiff, his fingers folded underneath his chin, his eyes closed. She glanced at John, who smiled at her.

"No need to worry about him, Penny. That's Sherlock Holmes, my former flat mate. He's simply working on – "

John's comforting words were cut off as she jumped to her feet. Now she remembered. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. His enemies. The two people he despised the most and vowed to bring down. To burn, he had said. He wanted to burn them. And now, they had found her. Oh, if he knew where she was, she would be dead for sure. She had to leave, even if it meant running back into him. She had to get out. Her eyes darting around and, finding the stairway out of the flat, she sprinted toward the open door.

"Penny, no!" John shouted, grabbing her hands as she attempted to escape. "What's wrong? What's happened? You can't leave. You're too weak."

She gasped for air, feeling the room start to spin around her. Chills racked her body as her chest tightened. There was no air, no air, and she was spiraling into the blackness that threatened to consume her. He was smiling at her, that horrible grin that only meant trouble and pain. He was all around her, dancing and laughing in that bloody Westwood suit. She collapsed to the floor as the darkness engulfed her.

A voice broke through the night. "Block him out. Don't let him in. You need to breathe. Breathe now. In and out, slowly. Slowly! There you go. Better."

She took slow breathes in, the let them exhale. In and out. In and out. Finally, she found herself able to look up from the floor. In front of her crouched Sherlock Holmes, the great detective and his worst enemy. Wanting to stand, she attempted to find her balance, but collapsed to the floor in exhaustion. Suddenly, strong hands engulfed her, and she was gently placed on the sofa. Soft hands touched her face, moving her chin back and forth and closely examining her eyes. She could see Sherlock through the spinning room, but he was blurry, a figure that could not actually exist in this world.

Another voice broke through. It was new, curt and clipped.

"I've just left a very important meeting with colleagues of some rather high distinction, Sherlock Holmes. This had better be worth my time, or I'm shipping you to Eastern Europe on that MI6 assignment."

"Trust me, Mycroft, this is far more important than your little schemes and tea parties with British royalty," the annoyed voice of Sherlock answered. She closed her eyes. They were so heavy, she was so tired.

"Well, what is it then?" the strange man named Mycroft asked, returning Sherlock's shade bite for bite. She struggled to open her eyes again. She needed to stay awake and leave this place. He was going to find her.

Through her opened eyes, she could see Sherlock gesturing at her. "Do you see that girl over there?" he asked.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm not blind."

"Do you know who she is?"

"I haven't the foggiest, and I still do not understand why this is so important."

Through blurry eyes, she saw Sherlock smile. "This is Annabel Moriarty. Does that make up for any inconvenience I've caused you today, Mycroft?"

She wanted to scream, to deny the truth. But she couldn't. Everything was heaviness and exhaustion. She closed her eyes against the morning sun and succumbed to the all-encompassing darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder. Someone was shaking her awake. Slowly, Annabel opened her eyes, squinting against the late afternoon sunlight. She stretched her sore arms, and then attempted to curl back into a ball and fall asleep again. This person, whoever they were, wasn't having any of it.

"Come on, sweetie. Time to get up. You've slept nearly all day." The voice was soft, grandmotherly – familiar. Annabel's eyes shot open, completely alert. The events of the morning came streaming back in flashes. She was at the flat of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. She had escaped from him the night before, and they had taken her in – and Sherlock knew her identity, and had shared it with some man named Mycroft, who clearly had some influence.

In front of her crouched the woman who had taken her into the flat. She was tiny, fragile looking, but Annabel perceived that she could be firm when the situation called for it. Standing behind the woman, whom Annabel assumed was Mrs. Hudson, she could make out Sherlock and John arguing animatedly about something she couldn't hear. Sherlock stood with his arms crossed, occasionally throwing them out in a gesture of frustration. John paced back and forth in front of him, pointing at various people in the room and gesturing angrily. She also noted a tall man sitting in the leather chair. He said nothing, only stared into the distance, holding his head in one had and swirling a glass of whiskey in the other. Seeing no means of escape, and assuming she was safe for now, Annabel decided to play along – for now. She needed to trust these people. They hadn't turned her over to him. And they clearly, somehow, knew her identity.

She smiled at Mrs. Hudson. "Thank you. What time is it?" she asked, her voice still a bit hoarse and her throat scratching as the words forced themselves out.

"It's four in the afternoon, dear," she responded. "You haven't eaten or drank anything all day. Can I get you anything?"

Annabel glanced nervously at the three men. Mrs. Hudson followed her gaze, sighing deeply.

"Don't worry about them, dear. They're always like this. Come on, let's get you some tea."

"Um, actually, which way is the bathroom? I've got to use it," Annabel asked.

"Down the hall on your left," Mrs. Hudson responded, grabbing her hands and helping Annabel to her feet. She wavered for a few seconds, then gained her balance and started to walk slowly toward the bathroom hallway – which, currently was blocked by a still-arguing John and Sherlock. She approached quietly, trying to edge around the argument. Apparently, Sherlock had other ideas.

"Ah, she awakes!" he exclaimed, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Tell me, Annabel," he continued, placing extra emphasis on her name, "Why did you finally decide to get away from the consulting crime business?"

She kept walking. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes from the sharp words. They stung her, their falsity and the extent to which Sherlock did not understand hurt her. She realized she was alone. No one would ever understand. A tight grip around her wrist stopped her progress. She whipped around and stared into Sherlock's glaring eyes.

"Need I remind you, Miss Moriarty, that you are currently under our protection? I could easily turn you over-"

"Sherlock," John's voice held a cautionary tone, a thinly veiled threat of violence. It suggested that John was very close to punching Sherlock in the face. "Let her go. We're all adults here."

"She's not an adult. She's a criminal."

She attempted to wrench her hand from his iron grasp, but to no avail.

"You know nothing," she hissed, her eyes blazing with hatred.

Sherlock pulled her closer, his eyes roaming over the deep gash on her face. His free hand brushed tangled locks away from her face.

"On the contrary, Annabel," he whispered, "I know much more than you realize."

"That's enough, Sherlock," a voice clipped from the chair. The tall man, Mycroft, stood quickly, then walked over to the kitchen and refilled his glass from a bottle of expensive whiskey on the counter. He sauntered back into the living room and stood next to Sherlock, staring him down. After a few minutes, Sherlock sighed and released her wrist. He stalked over to the leather chair and threw himself down, crossing one leg over another and folding his hands.

"Well, Mycroft, just what do you suggest we do?"

Mycroft sighed. He walked over to Annabel and slowly circled her, observing her tattered appearance and her obvious resemblance to the dangerous criminal. Annabel stood perfectly still. She still had no idea who Mycroft was, but he obviously held power and influence. Her dark eyes found John's light ones. He nodded encouragingly at her, but his mouth was pulled into a tight, nervous line. Suddenly, Mycroft stopped in front of her and turned to face Sherlock.

"We're in quite a situation, you three. Jim Moriarty is the most dangerous, most wanted criminal in London. And what's worse, he leaves no loose ends. He has no weakness, nothing to lose or bargain for. But now," he said, turning to face Annabel, "We have something he wants."

"For God's sake, Mycroft!" John snapped. "She's a child, not a bargaining chip! We're not using her as bate. And we're certainly not trading her for information!"

"John Watson, if you understood what this man knows, what he can do, then you'd perhaps be reconsidering that statement."

Annabel's mind reeled. The room started to spin again. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, getting the attack back under control. It was high time she stood up for herself in this damned place.

"I'm not going back. You can't send me back," she said firmly. "None of you have the authority-"

"Actually," Sherlock cut in, "you're quite wrong about that."

Annabel's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Mycroft Holmes. Nice to make your acquaintance," Mycroft stated. "I hold a minor position in the British government."

John snorted, shaking his head and sighing deeply. Sherlock stood, wandering over to the window and staring out.

"He means he is the British government, Miss Moriarty," Sherlock called over from the window. "And he has total and complete authority to hand you over to Jim Moriarty for whatever price he desires. You see," he said, his voice becoming slightly softer, "no one would ever know. It would be a quiet transaction, and no one in his department would dare question the decision after realizing the amount of information provided."

The room was silent. John kept his gaze on the floor, his fists clenched and knuckles white. Mycroft turned to face Sherlock. Sherlock remained staring out the window. And Annabel stood rooted to the ground, knees locked and eyes wide.

"You're not actually considering this, are you?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"We're considering all possibilities, Miss Moriarty," Mycroft replied.

Annabel closed her eyes. She saw no other choice. Her father had taught her one thing, one very important lesson that stuck with her: above all else, save your own skin.

"What if I told you I'm more valuable to you than any information he can provide?"

Sherlock snorted from the window. "I hardly believe that," he said, turning around to face her. "What could you possibly have that Jim Moriarty does not?"

Annabel smiled. "The one thing that you have that Jim Moriarty does not, Sherlock," she replied.

He huffed in annoyance. "Let's not talk in riddles, Annabel. Tell me. What do you have that Jim Moriarty does not?"

She turned her back and wandered into the kitchen, fishing a glass from behind the jar of fingers. Grabbing the bottle of whiskey, she poured a glass and tilted it back, drinking the brown liquid in one swig. She turned to face the three men. They were staring silently, waiting for an answer. Annabel smiled.

"A mind palace," she said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hope you're all enjoying! Thank you for the reviews and support and enjoy the chapter (with some Moriarty, finally!)**

* * *

_Flashback_

Annabel was seventeen. She stood outside her mother's car, wrapping a black pea coat tightly around her shoulders. A suitcase of clothes sat next to her on the ground. The passenger side door of the car was open, but she couldn't bring herself to step inside the car. Everything was changing.

Her mother rushed from the house.

"Come on, Annabel, get in the car. We'll be late," she called as she rushed around to the driver's side and wrenched open the door.

Annabel stood silently on the curb. Her mother glanced out the window at her stubborn daughter and sighed deeply.

"Sweetheart, please get in. We've talked about this, and-"

"No, Mom, you've talked about it. I've sat and listened. I've protested and said no at every possible opportunity. But you're still making me do this!" Annabel's voice escalated, her anger rising with each word. "I'm not a child anymore! You can't tell me what to do, and you certainly can't make me live with him!"

"Annabel Joan Moriarty, get in this car right now," her mother's anger rivaled Annabel's own. "You are still a child, legally, and as such require a legal guardian. Your father-"

"Has no idea we're coming, to start!" Annabel cut her mother off. She slowed her breathing and got her emotions under control. "Mom, he doesn't even know I'm alive. You said so yourself. Why can't you just take me with you?"

Her mother sighed, closing her eyes.

"I know it doesn't seem like it, sweetheart, but I'm doing this to protect you. You're all I've got, and I couldn't bear losing you. Even if it means I have to give you up for a little while." Her mother's eyes glazed over with tears. "Trust me, Annabel?"

She stood rigid outside the car. Then, nodding slowly to her mother, Annabel picked up the suitcase and carried it into the car. Her mother grabbed her hand, squeezing it, then started the engine and drove away from their house. As they sped down the street, Annabel stared at the quiet neighborhood. The houses, the trees, the neighbors, her friends – she had the sinking feeling she would never see them again. After a few minutes, the stress of the past few days, combined with the lull of the engine, allowed Annabel to fall into a restless sleep.

"Annabel," her mother's voice broke through clouded dreams. "Sweetheart, we're here. Come on, grab your bag."

She sat up and looked around. They were somewhere in London, outside a block that looked extremely expensive. Outside the car, cabs and bikers sped down the busy street. The sidewalk was filled with pedestrians, with locals and tourists and businesspeople, all streaming about and buying papers and food from street carts outside buildings. It was so lively and foreign. Quickly, she grabbed her bag and opened the door, jumping out onto the sidewalk. Her mother walked ahead to the door of the block and spoke quietly to the doorman. He nodded, and then disappeared inside the building. After a few moments, he returned, and ushered Annabel and her mother inside the block.

Together, they rode the lift to the penthouse. Annabel kept her eyes on the ground while her mother fidgeted nervously beside her. A sharp ding announced their arrival. The doorman smiled and let them out. He rode the lift back down behind them. They were alone, facing a door with an ornately carved knocker gracing its mahogany surface. Her mother offered Annabel a tight smile. Then she grabbed it and knocked three times.

Within seconds, the door was wrenched open. On the other side stood a man of small stature, yet he still towered over Annabel. His brown hair was slicked back, away from his face. A crisp white shirt was tucked into fitted dress pants that travelled down to rest on black dress shoes. But what caught Annabel's attention were his eyes. They were dark, dark and ominous and threatening. They held evidence of thinly veiled violence. The man smiled, a cold gesture that did not reach his eyes.

"Penelope. What a nice surprise," he said in a voice that suggested this surprise was anything but pleasant. His voice lilted with an Irish accent.

Her mother smiled back.

"Jim. It's been far too long. Do you mind if we come in?"

"But of course," he drawled, stepping away from the door and gesturing into the living room.

Annabel stepped over the doorway and stifled a gasp. The flat was beautiful, enormous, with no expenses spared. Jim – her father, she reminded herself – clearly had money. Lots of money. Her eyes wandered from the orate bookcases to the gilded chandelier, taking in the beauty of the room.

"Like it?" his voice asked softly from behind her.

She whirled around, shocked to find him standing mere inches from her. He stared intently at her face. Intimidated by his harsh stare, Annabel moved her eyes to the ground. A soft finger underneath her chin pulled her face back to his. She wanted to back away under his eyes, but she remained firm, returning his stare. Suddenly, he pushed her face to the side and stalked over to her mother, who was observing their silent exchange with an air of curiosity.

"Penelope, would you come with me, please?" Jim asked, in a voice that signaled to both Annabel and her mother that the question was rhetorical.

Her mother stood, nodded and smiled at Annabel, then followed Jim into a side room. The door slammed behind them. Annabel was alone. She walked away from her suitcase and wandered around the room, finally deciding to sit on a wide, leather couch located just outside the closed door. From her spot, she could hear snippets of conversation that became increasingly louder as they went on.

"Your daughter, Jim…"

"It's about time, Penny…"

"I couldn't…you understand…"

"No, I do not…it doesn't matter now…business…"

"Please, Jim…don't do this...anything else…"

"No…we had a deal…"

Annabel cringed, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. That all she was, all she ever was. Her mother's secret. Her father's surprise. A liability. She stood, blocking out the rest of their conversation as she grabbed her discarded suitcase and made her way to the door. She would leave. Nobody here wanted her anyways.

"Wait."

The voice startled Annabel. She turned around to find Jim staring at her from the doorway, his arms crossed across his chest, his hair slightly disheveled.

"Come over here," he said.

She knew better than to disobey. She had only known her father for minutes, yet she quickly realized he was a person accustomed to being obeyed. Silently, she walked to his side and entered the room. Her mother stood in the middle, her eyes brimming with tears and her hands shaking. Conversely, Jim was the model of calmness. His eyes betrayed no emotion as he stalked over to Annabel with hands held stiffly in his pockets.

"Your mother tells me you're special," he said, putting emphasis on the last word. "Want to tell me why she thinks so, sweetheart?"

She heard no love in his voice, only curiosity tinged with annoyance and malice. Annabel looked to her mother, who nodded at her through teary eyes.

"Go on, Annabel," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Show him."

Annabel sighed. She understood what was happening here. Jim didn't want a daughter. Her mother was in deep with bad people. The only way Jim would take her in was if she proved useful to his purposes. She weighed her options. Clearly, she wasn't leaving with her mother. She had no desire to stay with her father, but she had nowhere else to go. No family, no friends nearby, no way of supporting herself in this huge, imposing city. She was trapped. She saw no other choice but to prove herself to her father. Annabel turned to face him.

"My mother has told me nothing about you. All I know, I know from our thirty minutes spent together."

She paused. He nodded. She began.

"James Moriarty. Irish. Lived in London for twenty years. You're wealthy and you flaunt it, yet money is unimportant to you. You're an addict…addicted to mental games and the thrill of the game. But what game?"

She circled him as he stood perfectly still. Suddenly, she stopped. Her eyed widened, the slight smile she always wore when deducing and visiting her mind palace fell from her face.

"Consulting criminal. That's your addiction. High-end crime. Controlling every aspect of the game and every player in it."

Annabel turned her back on Jim and faced her mother.

"You knew, didn't you?" she asked softly. "You knew who he was. What he is and what he does. And you still want to leave me with him. Why?"

Her mother sighed. She walked over to Annabel and raised her hands to her face, attempting to comfort her daughter. Annabel turned to the side. Her mother cringed, but didn't try to stop her.

"I'm so sorry, Annabel. So sorry. I got in deep with the wrong people a few months ago. They were never going to leave us alone. I contacted Jim," she gestured to her father, who stood silently to the side, "And he agreed to help, under one condition."

Her mother's voice wavered, but she regained control.

"I've kept your father updated on you. He's watched you grow up through me. And I've told him about your…skills," she said, her voice hesitating slightly at the word. "When he agreed to take care of the people after me, he did so under the stipulation that you would come under his care until you come of age."

Her mother's eyes softened. "It's only a year, Annabel," she whispered. "Please, sweetheart, understand that I'm doing this to protect you."

Annabel's world started to spin. Everything was going dark. She felt the attack coming on, but this time, could do nothing to stop it. As she crouched to the floor and began to lose consciousness, she heard the shouts of her father calling for someone unseen. Strong hands lifted her from the floor. Then everything went black.


End file.
